Warming the Heart
by The Versatile Scarf
Summary: New York City, preRENT. Just the boys spending a night. [MR Fluff][Chapter Two Up]
1. Chapter 1

Warming the Heart

By: The Versatile Scarf

A/N: When the mood strikes, it strikes. Thank-you Ethiwen for your help on this fic . Pre-RENT.

x-x-x-x-x

"December Thirty-First, eleven thirty-seven P.M., Eastern Standard time. Our first New Year's in our new home, the Big Apple." The smile was evident in the unique voice narrating the humming piece of machinery as the image it was focused on panned in a full circle around the whole of New York city, taking in the twin towers and the Empire State building from the rooftop of the once-industrial loft, transformed into rather pathetic living quarters that had become the haven for two just out of high school young men, searching for their places in the artistic industry of their new surroundings. Quite a change from quiet, small Scarsdale, where the most exciting, gossip-producing events occurred at bar and bat mitzvahs, or weddings, or when a fight between husband and wife was overheard at the supermarket. Oh goodness, would the argument over Miracle Whip or mayonnaise destroy such a loving relationship?

The fact that they'd resolved the situation by buying both was never added into these stories.

"Roger and I have decided that, instead of braving the crowds that have formed while waiting for the ball to drop, we're going to watch from our own private vantage point on the roof of our building."

"Better view anyway." Came the slightly slurred mumble from underneath the camera, or so it sounded. The view slipped downward to to the cameraman's left, where a rather scruffy bleach-blonde man was situated, a half-empty bottle of unidentifiable alcohol in one hand hand, the neck of his guitar in the other, the body resting in his lap. He shot a grin at the camera, accompanying it with a wink, his eyes gleaming with something that eternally read 'come hither' that was glazed over by the influence of alcohol on his blood stream. He seemed entirely unfazed by the fact he was completely and utterly shit-faced, his grin open and revealing.

Mark felt his heart skip a beat.

"So, Roger 'Sex, Drugs, and Rock n' Roll' Davis has something to say?" He crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet, camera now level with Roger's face. However, the influence of alcohol on his own body caused aforementioned balance to falter, and he found himself falling back with a light 'thump' as his tailbone connected, none too gently, with the ground. The camera was clicked off sometime during his short tumble, so it did not catch the roar of laughter from the musician seated, cross-legged, beside him. "S'not funny."

The childish way in which he defended himself only served in causing the laughter to increase as the one rejoicing in Mark's pain doubled over his guitar, clutching at it with his free hand, all inhibitions about controlling himself having been blown away by the rather large amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Why bother when the only person who would witness it was your best friend, who was just as drunk as you were?

"Hey..." Came the murmur from beside Roger, a slightly hurt tone to it. The other man only continued laughing at the misfortune of his loftmate, his guffaws slowly dissolving into chortles and giggles, even as Mark's pained expression slowly twisted upward into an understanding smile, laughs of his own coming in short bursts at first, as though the sound was foreign to him. He eased himself into amusement, eventually giving up as well, clutching at the musician and his camera as the both of them grew incapacitated by their laughter, just two best friends revelling in pre-New Year's drunkenness.

It was Roger who calmed first, taking a swig of whatever he was holding, before extending the bottle to Mark, who had lifted his glasses and was wiping beneath his eyes.

"Here. You're not drunk enough. I'm telling you, the ball is _way_ better when you're drunk."

"And how would you know this?" Mark inquired, though he took the bottle offered to him nonetheless.

"T.V., Marky-boy. A man's best friend."

"I thought those were dogs.."

"... oh."

A companionable silence followed as they listened to the roar of the crowds below, tourists lining the streets of the city they now inhabited, almost identical, content smiles present as they nursed their respectable drinks. Personal preference. Roger preferred the hard stuff, while Mark went for a more.. _fruity_, smooth flavor. On occasion they would switch, but they both ended up returning to their surefire sense inhibitors. If they wanted to get drunk _fast_ they'd branch out, but a slow, smooth decline was what they sought tonight.

Twenty minutes passed in this manner. Twice Roger began plucking out songs on his guitar, three times Mark picked up his camera, the urge to film overwhelming but the lack of inspiration shooting him down, and once they erupted into completely random song.

"Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a faithful--"

"Fateful."

"--trip, that started on this tropic port aboard this tiny ship. The mate was a mighty sailor man, the skipper brave and..."

A pause.

"Old?" Mark supplied almost hopefully.

"Sure, let's go with that. Skipper brave and old.. How many passengers were there, Mark?"

"Ugh, _I'll_ sing it. Five passengers set sail that day for a three hour tour."

"A three hour toouuur." Roger echoed, a large, cat-like grin engulfing his entire face.

"The weather started getting rough, the tiny ship was tossed. If not for the courage of the fearless crew the Minnow would be lost."

A chord on the guitar, completely off, but aiding nonetheless. "The Minnow would be lost."

"The ship set shore.. uh... blah blah uncharted desert isle. With Gilligan--" Mark struck a pose.

"The skipper too." Now it was Roger's turn to salute the night sky.

"The millionaire and his wife." The natural blonde sidled up beside the taller man, who wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close.

"The movie star." Mark continued.

"She was so hot."

"The professor and Mary-Ann. Here on Gilligan's Isle." He had to smile as the other added in for the last line, harmonizing, albeit badly. Not that the entire thing hadn't been any better than a dying cat, but when notes didn't mix.. Let's just say their headaches wouldn't hurt any less the next day.

No awkwardness passed between them at their current position; Roger's arm about Mark's waist, Mark's head on Roger's shoulder. The bespectacled boy's eyes slowly began sliding to a close as he grew comfortable in the other's embrace before he snapped awake, glancing at his watch. Eleven fifty-eight. Holy crap, just in time.

"Rog... It's eleven fifty-eight." He peered out in the distance, spotting the ball, beautiful and bright from even this distance. There was so much tradition in that ball. People gathered in Times Square to watch it drop, singing, kissing...

... oh fuck.

".. Roger, kiss me."

"... what now?" Mark felt the arm around his waist loosen just slightly, but it didn't fall away entirely.

"It's tradition. On New Year's Ever you kiss someone. I've kissed someone every year until this year." It didn't matter that that person was most often his mother, aunt, or other female family member, and it didn't matter that the kiss was on the cheek of aforementioned woman. They had -still- been kisses, and he would feel absolutely horrible if he didn't continue the tradition. Apparently, Roger did not have that tradition in his family, because he was staring at him as though he'd just sprouted a third eye in the middle of his forehead and his glasses had expanded to accomodate it. "Oh, c'mon Roger... It's just a little kiss.." He pouted. "It's tradition."

The aquamarine eyes narrowed, indecision and an inner-struggle visible in them. Now, he'd never been the homophobic one--his father claimed _that_ title--but it was his best friend that was asking him to do this. And apparently he wasn't drunk enough to have completely disregarded that fact just yet. However, Mark's needling was doing him in...

No. If Roger were to remember this night and look back on it later, he would have to say that it was the pout that did him in. The way that Mark's pale eyebrows drew up together in the middle, the way those occasionally cold blue eyes opened up entirely for him, and the way that his lips curled downward, complete dejection written all over his face. He would deny it up and down, saying instead that he had just grown tired of the nagging and given in, but that would be false.

"Alright, fine. A kiss at midnight, happy?"

"Yup." And Mark strained upward to catch the other's lips in his own, just as the yelling from the crowd below intensified, but also quieted. It seemed that the many couples down there were mirroring the actions of the now oblivious boys settled atop the roof of an industrial loft in the middle of scuzzy New York city, locked in an embrace as the two of them fell back so that they were lying on their sides, facing each other, eyes closed, shyness forgotten.

It was at least five minutes later that they gathered up their empty bottles and staggered toward the stairway, Mark in the lead, his steps sometimes straight on, though usually he deviated a bit too far to the right and had to catch himself, while Roger just took slow, measured steps in order to keep on track all the while, his head down.

"Oh fuck."

Roger's head snapped up, and it was then he realized that he was about three yards to the right of the doorway hiding the stairs leading down to their loft and thus their nice, soft beds.

"What is it, Mark?"

".. We're locked out."

A pause.

"... No, really, what is it?"

"Roger, I swear to god, we're locked out." The blonde rattled the doorknob, growing increasingly worried with each passing moment, his eyes narrowing, lines appearing on his pale forehead.

"Here, you're a wimp, let me try."

And yet, while Mark's 'wimpyness' may have been fact, Roger was unable to open the door as well, even after nearly using his guitar to break it open. He'd thought better of that before destroying his beloved acoustic, thank goodness, but three bottles had lost their lives to the barrier between them and comfort.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.."

The mantra continued as Mark again moved toward the door, careful of the shattered glass littering the floor in front of it. They were locked out. That was a definite. They were about five stories between them and the ground, and while they just might get lucky and break their fall with tourists, it was probably better not to risk a broken neck.

".. I guess we'll be sleeping up here tonight. Someone will be up tomorrow, and not drunk. They'll hear us then." A shiver. Alcohol delivered a false warmth, and already the biting cold of New York at night in the middle of winter was slipping past it, chilling the two terribly. It was so fucking cold.. Turning away from the door, Mark shuffled back to where they had been sitting previous, his camera under his arm, leaning against a crate that had been placed there. No blankets. At least they were dressed warmly, hm? It sure as hell wouldn't do to be clothed in something they'd wear in summer. Hell, they wouldn't _survive_ if that were the case. He plopped down, gently setting the camera beside himself, and closing his eyes. Maybe if he pretended he was in the tropics he'd forget the chilled feeling in the tips of his fingers.

With his eyes closed he felt more than saw Roger sit next to him, reeking of alcohol that Mark couldn't smell over his own breath, legs stretched out before him.

"... what if we freeze to death?"

"Shut up, Roger."

"No, I mean _really_. What if we freeze to death up here, and then in three weeks, when someone finally notices the cloud of maggots and they see our frozen, decayed remains--"

"There wouldn't _be_ decayed remains if we're frozen, and then there would be no maggots. We'd just be dead."

A long pause.

"... I don't want to die, Mark."

The way his voice sounded, so small and afraid, caused the filmmaker to finally turn his head and focus on him, surprise evident in his blue eyes. Rarely did Roger talk about death, and usually he spoke as though unafraid of it. But this. This was new. This was a vulnerable side of the rockstar he'd never seen before, and it was.. _worrying_.

"We won't die, Rog.

"But what if we _do_?"

Mark didn't know how to respond to the child breaking through Roger's cool, sometimes gruff demeanor. It was so.. _vulnerable_. It frightened the blonde, badly. He didn't know just how to respond to it, but he knew he had to do something to calm the rockstar's nerves.

After a moment, his arms opened wide, and his head tilted. No, Mark. You will not take advantage of this situation. You will not take advantage of your drunk , scared, cold best friend. You will _not_. .. so he wouldn't. He'd be good, really. ... not that he hadn't already taken advantage of

That didn't stop him from revelling in Roger inching closer, leaning into the offered embrace.

"I'll keep you warm, Roger."

"Thank-you, Marky.." Was the response he received as the musician cuddled up to him, arms wrapping about his waist as Mark adjusted himself against the crate, watching Roger closely, a strangely warm, content feeling sprouting in the pit of his stomach and blossoming at the back of his head.

"G.. Good night, Rog."

x-x-x-x-x

Well, this will probably be multi-chapter.. We'll have to see.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I must begin this with an apology.

I have led the readers and reviewers astray.

This particular piece of fanfiction is an experiment to test the mind-set of RENT fanfiction writers, reviewers, and readers.

Unfortunately for you, the experiment was a success. I have more reviews on this ridiculous story than on any one chapter of Visits to You. That is a seven-chapter story, as opposed to this one chapter nonsense. This story basically follows some of the cliches surrounding the Mark/Roger pairing.

Fluff is read and reviewed more than angst. This story has twelve alerts while VtY has nine. If this story's review ratio of reviews per chapter were to be like VtY's, it would have approximately forty-three reviews as of this moment.

I write for myself. Always. Reviews are appreciated, but unecessary. I was merely noticing the trend and felt the need to see what a pointless fluff story, written as well(or as badly) as an angst story, would produce.

In a way, I was not disappointed with the results. They are exactly what I expected. However, it is in this very fact that I _am_ disappointed.

I am certain I've alienated a few readers and reviewers with this, but it was necessary.

And, to all who reviewed Warming the Heart, I apologize for using you as so-called lab rats. As per your request, the story _will_ continue. Fluff is not my forte, and thus it is harder to write. However, Visits to You will be finished before I even consider writing the next chapter for this.

Luckily for you, it's almost finished. One more chapter to go.

Thank-you for your time, and I appreciate all who actually took the time to read this or any of my work. I leave you with yet another apology. I know that this will do nothing to stop the trend, but hopefully it will enlighten at least _one_ person.

- The Versatile Scarf


	3. Chapter 3

Warming the Heart

Chapter 2

A/N: I love my readers. I've decided. Except for that badrobot person because actually, that -wasn't- the experiment. Thanks much for mocking my writing :3 I'm sure you're quite the jackass too.

Whoops! Language. Baaaad.

anyway. Thank-you all who will continue reading my things, and the experiment was really just to see how many -reviews- it receives. I understand that people read fluff more, most definitely. Logically it would be reviewed more as well. And really, I need an outlet for fluff sometimes. So.. this would be it. Heh.

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"So, do you think they're dead?"

"Doubtful. The blonde one's chest is moving."

"Well.. what about the other blonde one? What if he's dead?"

"I don't think he's dead."

oh fucking hell his head was killing him.

Slowly, ever so slowly, those eyes with the 'come hither' glare slid open to the soft sunlight that was New York on January First of the new year. The sun was partially obscured by two dark, vaguely humanoid figures leaning over him, and for a moment he worried he'd been abducted by aliens. He started, moving to struggle to his feet.. only to find that there was definitely something keeping him pinned quite nicely to the surface below him.

Oh god. He had been abducted. And now he was strapped to some operating table in some space ship and--

It was about that time that his 'straps' gave a groan of their own and shifted atop him, successfully digging a knee into his pancreas.. or where he thought his pancreas might be. Whatever it was, it hurt like a bitch, and it was then that he gathered what little strength he had and _shoved_ Mark from atop him, causing the smaller blonde to yelp as his hip and elbow connected painfully with the roof.

"I don't think either of them are dead." Muttered the voice from Roger's right as the other chuckled to itself.

All right. He wasn't abducted by aliens. Mark had been using him as a pillow.. fuck, that was an understatement. Mark had been using him as a fucking _bed_. They were in New York--the cold told him that much, and, very suddenly, he wished for the return of the filmmaker. He'd made for a good blanket. His mouth was desert dry and the space behind his eyes was throbbing as though a they themselves were gongs and some minuscule man was standing there, swinging his mallet and hitting them over and over and over again, only to create the worst headache in the history of the world. Just how much _had_ he drank last night?

"You boys all right?"

Roger's initial response was completely unintelligible, just a jumble of letters somehow strung together to create an entirely inhuman sound. His throat felt beyond raw, and his lips cracked as he spoke; no blood, but extreme, sharp pain. He ceased attempting to speak, swallowing once, twice, licking his lips, and attempting again.

"I.. I think we were locked out." Roger knew he should have been offended by the laughter greeting him from both sides of his head, but instead his reaction was to hold both hands to his head, eyes nearly crossing as he worked at blocking out the pain in his head. He was so focused on forcing the gonging away that he did not notice the hand on his leg, just above his knee, gripping tightly to his pants. He did not notice Mark's disoriented staring through one lens of his askew glasses. He did not notice that he was holding on to Roger himself with one hand, and his camera with the other--the latter was his most precious possession, so what did that say of the former?

"Well, the door's open now. Just consider yourselves lucky that you didn't freeze to death out here. I heard that temperatures got below freezing." The second voice interjected, starting to move away. Let them wake themselves up.

"You two're just lucky that we left some stuff up here yesterday, or you would have had to find another way down. We'll leave the door open for you." And the two voices retreated before Roger had ever gotten a good look at them, laughing all the while, the sound still audible long after they'd disappeared through the doorway and down the stairs.

Or perhaps that was the echo bouncing off the walls of his mind.

"Roger." He heard his roommate croak from beside him, and when he turned to stare blearily down at the young man, he saw a definite green tinge. Or perhaps he was imagining that.

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna throw up."

-----

His eyes were shut tightly against the sound of retching coming from the bathroom as he nursed a chipped glass of water, careful of his already chapped lips around the sharp edges--it wouldn't do to cause more bleeding than he already had. A twin glass rested on the make-shift coffee table before the couch he was stretched out on, just awaiting its owner's return. Silence for a moment, and then another violent bout, followed by nearly inaudible whimpers that caused the rockstar to shut his eyes for a moment, sighing heavily. What a night they'd had. They'd been drunk off their asses, but he could recall bits and pieces of it. Small snippets of conversations, horribly off-key singing, kissing...

Hold on there.

_Kissing_?

Logic would say that, as they had been locked up there with no way down other than that one door, they had been alone. They'd awoken alone this morning, and thus had been alone all night..

Which meant that the only person in his company would be Mark.

Which would, in turn, mean that it had been _Mark_ whom he'd kissed.

Aquamarine eyes slid toward the bathroom door, where an exhausted, almost smudged filmmaker was emerging, holding tightly to the doorframe, watching the floor in front of his bare feet as he stepped one, then two, then three, all the way toward the couch, where he settled on the end opposite Roger's, reached out, grasped his glass, brought it to his lips and took a long drink.

Roger's gaze still hadn't moved from him.

Swallowing, Mark stared rather vacantly at the apparently shocked guitarist, lowering the glass to his lap, where it was clutched between two shaky hands.

".. what?"

Nothing.

"... _What_?"

"We kissed."

The silence that descended over the loft following that statement was suffocating. Mark's glass very slowly tipped within his hands, allowing the water to dribble slowly onto the couch and eventually the floor, though he remained completely immobile otherwise. Roger, on the other hand, was staring blankly at him. .. really, this wasn't the reaction he'd expected from Mark. He'd expected the other to jump up and rush to the bathroom again, disgusted with their actions. He'd expected _something_ other than the dripping water. Anger, despair... something!

"And?"

That hit Roger like a blow to the head. He almost physically reeled, but kept himself--barely.

"And!?!?"

"Well... yeah. And. It's tradition. You kiss someone at midnight."

".. we're both men." The genius of a bleach-blonde stated.

"Yes."

".. doesn't that freak you out??"

He saw the other's Adam's apple visibly bob with a swallow. If only he could see inside that pale head of his. If only he could get past that hungover glaze in Mark's eyes and pry into his thoughts, find out what he was thinking. If only he could understand what was making this next answer so difficult to conjure up. It was a simple yes or... yes question! He may have been a part of that 'open-minded rock and roll' group, but the filmmaker was his best friend, and had been for a long while.

".. no."

The enormity of this response didn't settle in on Roger's throbbing mind until he'd registered the light dusting of red across the pale cheeks.

"It.. It doesn't?"

".. not at all."

The staring match that ensued after the interrogation was ended when Mark blinked slowly, owlishly, at the musician across from him, knees up to his chest by this point in time, as though he were trying to contain the butterflies in his stomach. But they were very violent, violent butterflies, and it was a visible change when those butterflies decided to pay a visit once again.

The clatter of the glass falling to the ground but remaining intact was followed by thumping, skittering footsteps as Mark again thundered toward the bathroom, a hand over his mouth, eyes squinted shut. The door slammed behind him, and still Roger had yet to move.

"... It didn't freak him out?"

x-x-x-x-x

So. This is the one time I'm open to plot ideas. Send me your ideas! Where would you like to see this story go?? -gasps-


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